


The Morning Star

by la_muerta



Series: Like Smoke Through Your Fingers [4]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Noir, Case Fic, Detective Alec Lightwood, Detective Noir, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Mild Smut, POV First Person, Period-Typical Homophobia, Private Investigators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-07 16:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12236115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_muerta/pseuds/la_muerta
Summary: Private investigator Alec Lightwood is hired by a rich widow, Imogen Herondale, to find and retrieve a priceless family heirloom. Alec quickly finds himself embroiled in a case of robbery, blackmail, murder - and deep dark secrets.





	1. Chapter 1

 

It was eight o'clock on a Wednesday evening, and the Black Cat Bar was sparsely populated with men in fancy evening clothes. I was wearing a cheap suit and a black necktie, and stuck out like a sore thumb, but the hatcheck girl didn't bother giving me grief about any of it. She saw me so often, I was probably getting to be like part of the furniture. It also helped that she knew who I was going in to meet. 

It was funny how easily it became a routine. I went about my business every day, and in the evenings I would go to the bar to meet Magnus; or maybe not, if either of us had business of our own. Half a year ago, I would have balked at being seen going into the Black Cat. Now it was just another part of my day, albeit the most enjoyable part. 

Magnus was nursing a drink and nodding absently at a gent making conversation with him when I walked in. He brightened up when he saw me. 

"Alexander! I missed you last night."

"I'm sorry, I was caught up in a case." 

"Anything interesting?"    

"My client's dog dragged me through the mud - literally," I sighed. "It was a giant mastiff. You know those reports in the tabloids, about the werewolf spotted in downtown New York?" 

Magnus laughed a little at that. "If I were any good at writing, I'd offer to be the Watson to your Sherlock, and write up your cases for you. This one would be 'The Hound of Manhattan'."

"I'm hardly Sherlock Holmes," I scoffed.  

"And a good thing you aren't too - just that the great detective always sounded like a cold fish to me," he smiled. "Any word from the secret admirer who sent you the cat-eye stone?" 

"No, and I don't have admirers. It probably just got lost in my mail slot on its way to its intended recipient." 

"I must disagree, Alexander; I personally find you very worthy of admiration," he teased. "How does Marvell's poem go? 

" _An hundred years should go to praise_  
_Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;_  
_Two hundred to adore each breast,_  
_But thirty thousand to the rest;_  
_An age at least to every part,_  
_And the last age should show your heart..."_

"Magnus," I chided him, aware that I was blushing, and he smirked. 

"Alright, darling, I promise not to embarrass you any further in public. Dinner, then drinks at my place?" 

"No drinks, not tonight," I told him regretfully. "I'm calling on a client early tomorrow morning, and it always gets late with you." 

"Is that a complaint?" Magnus teased.

"A compliment."  

"You're turning out to be quite the charmer yourself, Mr Lightwood," Magnus laughed. "Come, let's go to dinner. I know this lovely Ethiopian place on 44th..." 

"Lead the way, Mr Bane." Our gazes locked, and I felt a small but discernible thrill of gratitude and pride that this extraordinary man had chosen to be with me. He smiled, and we walked out into the night together.

 

 

The next morning was one of those rare clear, bright mornings we get just before winter sets in. The air was fresh and there was a slight breeze.

The Herondales lived in one of those old Gothic mansions from the turn of the century, with wide porches and walls covered with round-end shingles and full corner bay windows with spindle turrets, the New York City equivalent of a medieval castle. I didn't know much about Mrs Imogen Herondale - all I knew was that she was the widow of the big philanthropist Marcus Herondale. Her late husband had had some dealings with Detective Inspector Luke Garroway, and she had gone to him asking for a nice clean private detective who knew how to keep his mouth shut.

The front doors were wide enough for an elephant to go through, and had a knocker in the shape of a lion's head. I tapped it and listened to the sound reverberating ominously in the house. I felt like I was in a fairytale, calling on an ogre. I tugged on the lapel of my powder-blue suit - Izzy's idea - and watched a slim young chauffeur dusting a silver convertible in the garage.

I was expecting the butler, probably some wizened old man with a sour personality; instead, the door was answered by a slight woman of Asian descent. She was slim and lovely, simply dressed in a nice linen dress with no ornaments about her person, her long dark hair pinned back neatly. She looked like the intelligent sort, but there was something fragile-looking about her.

"Alec Lightwood," I said. "Calling on Mrs Herondale. By appointment."

"Of course," she gave me a small sweet smile, and opened the door properly. She had a clear, soft voice that was very pleasant to the ear. "I am Miss Rollins, Mrs Herondale's secretary. I'll tell Mrs Herondale you're here." 

The door shut behind me, closing out the air and light of the bright morning, and it was like being buried alive in a tomb. It was cold in the house, colder than it should have been for late autumn. But the cold was more than physical; the place felt as if there had never been warmth or light or laughter inside it. There were no pictures or photos on the hard stone walls, no ornaments, not even carpeting. The bare parquet floor was made from a dozen kinds of hardwood, darkened with time - from Burma teak through half a dozen shades of oak and ruddy wood that looked like mahogany, all laid in elaborate patterns with military accuracy.

The main hallway was two stories high, with wide sweeping staircases on either side leading to a gallery with a wrought-iron railing. Green velvet curtains sagged across huge glass windows with alternating panes of green and blue glass. In the morning sun, they reminded me of the ocean and made me feel like I was in an underwater shipwreck. I was led to a couple of heavy carved wooden monstrosities passing off as furniture that didn't look as if anybody ever sat in them or would ever want to, but took a seat to be polite.  

I watched Miss Rollins turn down a short hallway and disappear behind a heavy double glass door. She was gone about four minutes, then I heard the doors open again, and the click of her heels on the parquetry. But before she could turn out of that short hallway, I heard a male voice ask: "What's he here for? Why did she send for a detective?"

"I can't tell you that, she wouldn't like that," Miss Rollins replied, her voice tremulous. 

"I have a right to know!" 

"Mr Herondale, please let go of me," I heard her say pleadingly, and was up on my feet in an instant.

A man with blond hair had seized Miss Rollins' arm in a bruising grip, and was obviously causing her pain.

"Let go of her," I said firmly.

The man turned and looked me over without haste and without much pleasure. He was a good-looking man of about forty or fifty, with icy blue eyes the exact shade of my adopted brother Jace's one blue eye. He was sharply dressed in a slate blue suit and expensive black-and-white shoes that I'm sure he thought made him look real young and dandy. He let go of Miss Rollins, and she darted to a corner, far away from either one of us, like a frightened hare cornered by hounds. 

"You're the detective?" he sneered. "I must say I'm a little disappointed. I thought you lot were supposed to be tough, something with dirty fingernails; not pretty boys playing dress up." 

"I'm flattered, but I'm afraid you're not my type, Mr Herondale," I said mildly, and watched him flush.

"A smart guy, huh? Well, I'm afraid we've put you to the trouble of coming all the way out here for nothing - I've just spoken to my mother, and she's decided not to employ you - or anybody, for that matter," he said as he dug out a leather pocketbook. "How much do we owe you?" 

I glanced at Miss Rollins - she was trembling, her lips pursed together. I caught her eye, and gave her what I hoped was an encouraging nod.

"Mrs Herondale will see you now, Mr Lightwood," she finally said. Stephen Herondale shot her a venomous look; she flinched, and looked away, but stood there waiting to usher me in to Mrs Herondale's room. 

"Thank you. After you then, Miss Rollins," I smiled at her. I pinned Stephen Herondale with a hard look as I followed Miss Rollins down the short hallway. 

 

 

The room Mrs Herondale was in turned out to be some sort of sun porch. Mrs Imogen Herondale was seated stiff-backed in a fancy reed armchair well-stuffed with cushions, with a wine glass in her hand. She must have had Stephen Herondale young - she didn't look more than a late sixty, and certainly didn't look like an old doddering widow - she held herself like a military commander. She was wearing a high-collared lace dress, heavy emerald earrings, and her hair was done in a ruthless permanent wave.

Her eyes were hard and cold as she watched me walk in with Miss Rollins. There was a low glass-topped table beside her and a bottle of port on the table - she sipped from the glass she was holding while she looked me over, and let me stand while she finished the port in her glass, then she put the glass down on the table and filled it again. Her voice, when she spoke, was as hard as her eyes.

"You can go now, Dorothea," she dismissed her secretary. There was a flash of fear in Miss Rollins' eyes - no doubt she was in for some unpleasantness from Stephen Herondale after the way she had stood up to him just now. 

"Perhaps Miss Rollins should stay - to take notes," I suggested.

"Are you suggesting that I look like a senile old woman? I assure you, Mr Lightwood, that my memory is impeccable," she said, unamused. 

"I'm afraid the notes are very much for _my_ benefit, Mrs Herondale," I replied.

"Mr Lightwood, I don't have patience for people who think they're funny," Mrs Herondale said. "If you find Miss Rollins attractive, I'm afraid you'll have to take that up with her on your own time." 

I blinked in surprise, and hoped it didn't show. Whatever it took, I suppose. "You're a very perceptive lady, Mrs Herondale," I told her, and tried for a hopeful smile.

She harrumphed and looked at Miss Rollins, then back at me. "I suppose there is no accounting for taste. Very well - take a seat in the corner there, Dorothea." Miss Rollins glanced at me warily, and did as she had been told.  

"I won't abide smoking in here, Mr Lightwood. On account of my health," Mrs Herondale said warningly. 

"That's fine."

"I've never had any dealing with private detectives, and I don't know anything about them, but you come highly recommended from Garroway. I must say I was expecting someone a little older and more intelligent-looking."

I shrugged. "How can I be of service to you, Mrs Herondale?" 

"Something has been taken from this house, and I want you to help me get it back."

"Something valuable? Why not go to the police?" 

"If I wanted a bunch of ham-fisted goons trampling about the place, I'd go to them. Besides, I don't want anybody arrested - I just want my property back." 

"Fair enough. What's been taken?"

"A Herondale family heirloom - the Morning Star."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this took a little longer than I'd expected. I started planning, then realised it would make more sense for the next installment, and had to start all over again!
> 
> The poem Magnus quotes is _To His Coy Mistress_ by Andrew Marvell.


	2. Chapter 2

 

"The Morning Star?"

"That's what its called. A priceless, flawless diamond the size of a goose egg, set in a gold pendant. Italian workmanship, very fine. Although of course it can't be compared to the value of the diamond itself."

"When did you find out it was missing?" 

"Yesterday. I never have any occasion to check on it, but a jeweller called Victor Aldertree called up the house, asking if the Morning Star was for sale, and obviously it wasn't - any person with an ounce of common sense would know that. But it aroused my suspicions, so I checked the safe, and found out that it was gone."

"You think whoever stole it tried to sell the Morning Star to Aldertree? But a gem like that - it would be pretty hard for the jeweller to get rid of, unless he broke it up into smaller pieces and reset them." 

"You seem to know quite a bit about the business of gemstones, Mr Lightwood."

"I know someone," I said vaguely. "Who else besides you knows the combination of that safe?"

"Only myself, my son, and Miss Rollins," she replied.  

I sat back. "Then perhaps it would interest you to know that your son tried to call me off the case, just now."

"Leave my son out of this," she barked out harshly. "I know I have a damn fool of a son who chases after everything with a skirt, but even he can't be as big of a fool to steal from his own mother. And of course it can't be Miss Rollins - ridiculous. Too mousy." 

She was speaking about Miss Rollins as if she was an extra chair in the room and couldn't understand anything we were saying about her. It didn't sit well with me, not at all.

"I see. Then how was it stolen? Are there other people in the household?" 

"The gardener and chauffeur aren't allowed in the house, and the cleaning and cooking staff are old ladies who have been with me since I married Marcus. No, it isn't anybody from the household staff - but my son had an ill-advised dalliance with a night club singer, by the name of Sarah Queen. They were not married, but she lived here in this house for a while. We didn't quarrel because I don't allow people to quarrel with me in my own house, but obviously there was no love lost between us. At any rate she moved out, very abruptly, a week or so ago, without leaving a forwarding address or saying goodbye. I'm sure she could have tricked my son into revealing the combination of the safe - you know what these night club people are like."

"All sorts of people - like the rest of us," I replied. "No signs of forced entry, I suppose?"

"No."

"Just assuming you are right, and this lady stole your heirloom. But you don't want her arrested? Why not?"

She laughed harshly. "This is a delicate family matter, Mr Lightwood. And it must be handled with delicacy."

"If you hire me, you'll get all the delicacy I have. If I don't have enough delicacy, maybe you'd better not hire me."

"Young man, do you want this job or don't you?"

"Only if I'm told all the facts, Mrs Herondale. My job is to help my clients, and it becomes very hard to do that if they keep things from me. Why are you trying to protect Miss Queen from the police?" 

Mrs Herondale sipped some more of her port and looked at me consideringly. "Let's just say I don't want any trouble from this girl, and I'm sure she would make enough trouble for me if the police were involved."

All my instincts were jangling, my hackles raised. What hold did Sarah Queen have on the Herondales that they wouldn't want the police involved in this matter? I glanced at Miss Rollins and was shocked to see that she had turned completely pale, and was shaking like a leaf in the wind. Her eyes were wide and unblinking, and she looked terrified out of her mind. I didn't know what it was that had set her off - the mention of Sarah Queen, or the mention of the police? Whatever it was, there was more to this case than met the eye. I looked back at Imogen Herondale, and saw that she had been watching me. There was a glint in her eye that I didn't like at all. Well - you know what they say about curiosity killing the cat. 

"If I take the case, what do you want done?" I asked Mrs Herondale.

She leaned back in her chair in satisfaction, as if she had beaten me somehow. "Just recover the heirloom. Nothing more."

"I'll take it." If I did a bit extra sleuthing on the side, that would be my own business.

"What are your charges?" 

"Twenty dollars a day, plus expenses. And I get a hundred down as a retainer - from strangers." 

"What kind of expenses?" 

"Gas for my car, mostly. Anything else that comes up."

"I expect to see a proper listing, and I'll only pay for what I approve," she said, eyeing me critically. "Dorothea, help me make a cheque out for a hundred dollars for Mr Lightwood, will you?"

Upon hearing her name, Miss Rollins startled back to life and nodded. She went out and came back in with a three-decker cheque book and a fountain pen, and made a desk of her arm for Mrs Herondale to sign. Mrs Herondale tore out the cheque with a sharp gesture, and had Miss Rollins hand it to me. 

I shook the cheque to let it dry. "What can you tell me about Sarah Queen?"

"Practically nothing. I wasn't interested enough to find out."

"You mentioned that she didn't leave a forwarding address?" 

"No, she did not."

"How about your son? Would he know?"

"I told you, Mr Lightwood, to leave my son out of this," Mrs Herondale snapped. "He doesn't even know that the Morning Star has been stolen." I highly doubted this, but I held my tongue for now.

"How soon can I expect you to solve this problem for me?" she demanded.

"I'll report to you when there is anything to report, Mrs Herondale," I told her, and she nodded grudgingly.

"See him out, Dorothea," she said imperiously, and went back to sipping her port.

 

 

Miss Rollins led me back out the way I'd came. We didn't see Stephen Herondale again. When I'd retrieved my coat and hat, I tapped her shoulder to get her attention, and she jumped.

"Don't touch me," she said, and jerked out of my reach.

"Are you quite alright?" 

"What do you want?" 

"Do you have any information about Sarah Queen, anything at all? A name is not much to go by." 

Miss Rollins looked back over her shoulder anxiously, as if she expected either of the Herondales to come and catch her talking to me.

"I saw the car that came to pick her up, when she left," Miss Rollins admitted. "It was a blue Mercury convertible, 1940 model. License number 2X1111."

"The driver?" 

"Blond, well-dressed. He was wearing dark glasses. But from the way she spoke to him, I think he wasn't the guy she was going off with, just the chauffeur."

"How about Miss Queen? What does she look like?"

"She's a small woman, red hair and green eyes. She dresses in a way that's very... appealing."

"You mean sexy?" 

She flushed. "You could say that." 

"You'd make a good cop," I said. 

"Don't be cruel," she replied. She walked to the front door and held it open for me. "And I'd thank you to take your interest somewhere else."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable back there. I thought I was helping you out of a tight spot. If it helps you to know, I'm very much spoken for," I told her as I stepped out of the doorway.

"That doesn't mean anything," she said, and I was surprised at the bitterness in her tone. 

"Who hurt you?" I asked her softly. 

She looked at me dully. "You and every other man I've ever met." She shut the door quietly.

 

  

Victor Aldertree was easy enough to find in the phone book. He had a shop front in High Street, which surprised me - I had been expecting some dodgy business holed up in a shady building somewhere. The Idris, as it was called, was a glittering, well-lit establishment with black and gold marble floors behind swinging double plate glass doors bound in platinum. There were a few glass cases lined in black velvet, displaying a sparse, tastefully arranged array of shiny baubles, but most of the room was dominated by a fountain with the bronze statue of a mermaid pouring water from a pitcher. I supposed you could tell a business was top end when it didn't even need to display its wares to be making money.

There was a girl with long dark hair and shell glasses behind a desk with a tilted embossed plaque that said her name was Miss Lindsay Longford. I put my card on her desk and asked to see Mr Aldertree. The card didn't state my profession - only my number, office address, and "A. Lightwood" on it. She looked at the card and said: "Do you have an appointment?"

"No appointment." 

"It is very difficult to see Mr Aldertree without an appointment. What is the nature of your business, Mr Lightwood?"

I glanced pointedly around the shop. "Business."

"I see," she said, looking me up and down, and for once I was glad of Izzy's meddling about what I wore to meet clients. "Does Mr Aldertree know you, Mr Lightwood?"

Probably not. But what I said was: "Perhaps the best way to find out is to ask him."

She smiled uncertainly at me and disappeared into a back office. A few minutes later, a tall black man in a sharp suit and with about eight carats of diamond on his right hand walked out with Miss Longford. He looked my way when Miss Longford pointed me out, and put on a smile as sincere as a crocodile's as he walked towards me. 

"Mr Lightwood," he greeted me. "I must admit I was puzzled when I heard you wanted to talk business with me, since I don't know of any Lightwoods in the jewellery business." But before I could say anything in reply, he continued: "I recognised you immediately, of course. You were at the Morgenstern's party, as Mr Bane's... associate."

"I'm not here in that capacity," I said, trying to hide my surprise at being recognised. 

"I should hope not. I'm afraid I do not share your proclivities."

I clenched my jaw. "May we speak privately, Mr Aldertree?" 

"I'm a very busy man, Mr Lightwood."

"I'll be sure to pass that message on to the coppers when they come knocking."

He looked uneasy for a split second before his face smoothed out into a bland, polite smile. "Perhaps I could spare you a few minutes. My office is this way," he said, and opened the door to his office.

His private office was dim, quiet, air-conditioned and comfortably wide without being too big. All the furniture matched, and the grey Venetian blinds were half-closed to keep out the afternoon glare. Mr Aldertree strolled unhurriedly to about nine hundred dollars' worth of executive desk and settled himself in a tall leather chair. He took a long cigar out of a mahogany box, took his time trimming it, and lit it with a heavy copper desk lighter. He leaned back and blew a little smoke to the side. 

"You tried to threaten me with the police, Mr Lightwood. I run a reputable business here - I hope you have a good reason to be doing that."

"I'm a private investigator. I've been hired by Mrs Herondale. She said you called yesterday to enquire about the Morning Star."

He chuckled at that. "I did. But first - you said you're a private detective. I'm going to need to see some proof."

I got my wallet out and handed him my license. He took out a pair of gold-trimmed reading glasses, studied it seriously, and slid it back across the desk. 

"So the Morning Star has been stolen?" he asked. "You wouldn't be here asking me about it if it wasn't." 

There was no point denying the obvious, so I simply nodded. "What is your interest in it?" 

"The late Mr Marcus Herondale approached me a number of years ago, asking if I'd be interesting in purchasing it, but nothing came of it in the end," he shrugged. "I was merely following up to see if his widow had different ideas, but I see I picked a bad time to call her."

"The Morning Star is a family heirloom. Why would they be looking to sell it?"

He smiled a little condescendingly at me. "Mr Marcus Herondale was a philanthropist, as I'm sure you know, but they say he cared a bit too much about the well-being of others and too little about the well-being of his own family. He would have run his own family to the ground to 'do good'. His widow and son would be accustomed to a certain lifestyle, and I'd imagine the coffers are running low after all these years."

"Marcus Herondale has been dead for years now, though. Why now?" 

"Like I said, coincidence," Aldertree shrugged. "Or perhaps it had something to do with Jonathan Morgenstern - you must remember him, from the dinner party. He reminded me very much of the younger Mr Herondale - Jonathan Morgenstern is a spitting image of him, wouldn't you say?" There was a glint in Aldertree's eye as he continued: "Awful business, murdering his own father... of course they say he got away with it in the end. Rumour has it, your _friend_ , Mr Bane had a hand in that, and spirited him away somewhere to wait for things to cool off."

"Jonathan Morgenstern was proven innocent by court of law," I said coldly. "He was framed, and the real murderer was caught."

"By you?" Aldertree asked, taking another puff on his cigar. "That's very impressive, Mr Lightwood. You must be a very accomplished detective. Maybe you could put your talents to good use and reunite the Herondales with their lost heir." 

"I don't deal in idle speculation, Mr Aldertree. I deal in facts, and hard evidence."

"Good. I like to hear that," he said. "So the next time you come around trying to accuse me of buying stolen property, I hope you have some hard evidence to show for it. Now, I'm afraid I'm a very busy man. I'm sure you can show yourself out."

I stood up and nodded at him stiffly. "Thank you for your time, Mr Aldertree." I opened the door and tried not to slam it behind me when I left.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

I spent the next morning scouring through the phone book for Sarah Queen. There were three hundred and twenty-eight people by that name in New York City, total population eight million. I called up the Auto Club and checked out the license number Miss Rollins had given me, but that turned out to be a dead end as well - there was no record of it at all, which meant it was either stolen or a fake, both of which set off all sorts of alarm bells. 

My next move was to tail Victor Aldertree. I had mentioned him to Magnus the night before, and Magnus' only reaction had been to wrinkle his nose and say that he tried not to do business with bigots, which I understood all too well.

I had just locked the door to my office when I heard footsteps on the hallway outside, and Stephen Herondale walked in my reception room. He took in my faded settee, dusty curtains and threadbare carpet with a sneer. He had a cigarette in one hand; he took a puff, then tapped the ash out on my carpet.

He blew some smoke my way. "Private investigating is a rather shifty business, isn't it? Peeping in keyholes, raking up scandals, preying on the paranoia of unsuspecting old ladies..."

"How did you find me, Mr Herondale?"

"A little worm told me," he said with a nasty grin. "A simple, plain garden worm, often trodden on, but somehow still surviving."

I gritted my teeth. "Are you here on business, or just here for small talk?" 

"I want to know what my mother has employed you for."

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Mr Herondale."

"Look - she's an old lady. I don't know what she told you, but she's getting on in years, and she gets confused sometimes. Delusional, you know? Sometimes she moves things around and forgets that she has done it herself."

I raised an eyebrow. "On the contrary, I thought she seemed very sound of mind. A grand old warhorse. She seemed like the type to know everything that goes on under her roof."

He stubbed out the remains of his cigarette on the corner of the sad, worn low table in front of him, purposely ignoring the ashtray placed in the middle. He must have thought I cared more about the furniture in my office than I actually did, if he thought this was going to rile me up. He tipped out another cigarette from a fancy enamel case, and lit it with a broad mahogany-coloured match, then carelessly shook out the match and dropped it on the carpet.

"I'm not an unreasonable man. Tell you what - I'll give you a couple of hundred, and you tell me what my dear old mother told you. I can probably give you a good explanation for all of that, and you'll see that there's no case at all. You can still pretend to work the case and get a few days worth of fees out of it, I won't begrudge you that." 

"You sound as if you already have a good idea what your mother hired me for. If you already know the answers, why ask me?"

Something in him snapped and he finally lost his patience. "There must be a lot of electricity in the air for a man in your line of work to turn down two hundred dollars," he snarled.

"When a man in my line of work is handed a job, he doesn't go around answering questions about it to anybody who gets curious. Surely you should know that?" I replied evenly. 

"You think you're a man with principles, then?" he sneered. "It's a waste of time talking to you. All you do is act cagey."

"It's in my job description."

He glared at me, then spun and went out of the door. His steps died along the corridor. I leaned down and picked up the match he had dropped. It had thin yellow edges and there was white printing on it: "FAERIE COURT 5-". The rest had been burnt off. I doubled the match and squeezed the halves together, wondering where or what was "Faerie Court". After a moment's hesitation, I unlocked my office door, went back to my desk, and picked up the phone.

 

 

The Faerie Court turned out to be a plushy night club and gambling joint on 54th. Magnus came over to pick me up at seven, and I nearly swallowed my tongue when I got in the car - I had never seen him in a three-pieced suit before, only in his silk shirts with the high mandarin collars. The dark grey slim-cut suit fitted him like a glove, a burgundy tie and matching display handkerchief adding a splash of colour to the whole ensemble.

"You look... different," I told him when I'd found my voice again.

"The Faerie Court isn't like The Black Cat, Alexander," he said as he adjusted my lapel fondly.

"You didn't have to come along." 

He shook his head and smiled at me. "Are we going to argue about this again? I told you, it's an exclusive club."

"You're not a member either." 

"No, but I know the right people," he reminded me. "I've heard of this club, and I must admit I am curious as well. Think of it as allowing me the opportunity to satisfy my curiosity."

I nodded reluctantly. The weight of my revolver in my shoulder holster was a comforting presence; I had taken to bringing it around after the business with Meliorn. 

The wall of the club building that faced the road was white and blank - no entrance door, no windows on the lower floor. The only sign that we were in the right place was a small but bright green-coloured neon sign of a little winged pixie. The road led round to the back where a small parking area with neat, even rows of cars shone under the street lights. There was a porch with an overhanging canopy of glass and chromium, and an attendant in a crisp forest-green uniform behind a podium.

We got out of the car and approached the attendant. He looked us over cautiously.

"You are not members."

"No." 

"I'm afraid we don't allow visitors, sir. This is a private club."

Magnus smiled at him, a thin, polite smile. "My name is Magnus Bane." He arched an eyebrow and looked expectantly at the attendant.

"Just a minute, please," the attendant said a little nervously, and spoke to another uniformed man inside the building, someone plugged up to a PBX. He came back after a few minutes with a smile for Magnus.

"Right this way please, Mr Bane."

The door was opened for us, and we were led into a dimly-lit lobby. The dark marble floor had veins of sparkly quartz or mica in it, looking like twinkling stars in the soft light. The walls were covered in satiny fabric and seemed to go up forever. A free-arched stairway in the back with wide shallow carpeted steps led off into parts unknown. The bar entrance was to the left, and I could see a throng of beautifully-dressed people inside. 

The hatcheck girl came to take our hats and coats and silently disapprove of my clothes. We went into the bar and I sank into a leather bar seat packed with down. Glasses tinkled gently, lights glowed softly, and a band played something catchy in the corner. Swaths of gauzy sky blue fabric draped down from the ceiling, together with glittery ropes that had been artfully made up to look like flowering vines. The room was filled with a haze of cigarette smoke, putting everything in a dreamy half-focus. There was a stage in the middle of the room, currently empty. There were people drinking, people whispering, and people dancing gracefully, their feet barely seeming to skim the floor. 

I got the attention of the barman, and he made his way towards me. "Yes, sir?"

"I'm looking for Sarah Queen." 

He smiled slyly at me. "You, and all the men here tonight." Good, so she was performing tonight. 

"Drink while waiting?" he asked me.

"A dry martini will do," I told him. He got me the drink and I brought it to Magnus, who favoured me with a flirty wink.

"What's a nice man like you doing in a place like this?" he asked me.

I snorted inelegantly in response. 

"Don't pretend you don't enjoy me wooing you," he said. "And I intend to keep doing so." 

Maybe it was the dim lights. Maybe it was the music masking our conversation from prying ears. Maybe it was just that he was looking at me like I truly was the most fascinating thing in the room; but whatever it was, it made me feel bold. "There's no need for that. For you, I'm a sure thing," I replied.

Magnus leaned in, his eyes dancing with mischievous delight. "I'm going to hold you to that later tonight, Mr Lightwood," he promised in a low voice that sent a shiver down my spine.

Somehow the music the band had been playing had changed tempo without my noticing, and there was a bit of a commotion in the room. I tore my eyes away from Magnus' and turned to the stage to see that someone had stepped up under the spotlights. Her hair floated around her face like a cloud of autumn leaves, and she wore an egret plume in it. She wore a nice dress, but there wasn't much of it. It was green sifted with gold dust, and reminded me of sunlight filtering through the trees in Central Park. She was a small woman, but a good part of her body was taken up by a pair of beautiful legs. She had the utterly disdainful expression of a dame who was capable of making men swoon for her from thirty feet away, and knew it.  

There was a hush in the room, and she opened her mouth to sing - she had a pleasant enough voice, and even I recognised the song.

_Men are not a new sensation_  
_I've done pretty well I think_  
_But this half-pint imitation_  
_Put me on the blink_

_I'm wild again, beguiled again_  
_A simpering, whimpering child again_  
_Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I..._

Well, she certainly had every man in the room bewitched, even if the smiles she cast into the room were as cold as I'd ever seen. Despite her loveliness, she was as cold and hard as a winter gale. There was a loud round of applause and some wolf-whistling when she ended.

"So that was Sarah Queen," Magnus murmured. 

I was just wondering how I could get to her to speak to her, when I noticed her coming off the stage and making her way towards us. Magnus followed my gaze and huffed in amusement. 

"Go. I've got this," he said when I hesitated.

"I'll be in the corner - in sight and within earshot," I told him out of the corner of my mouth. "First sign of trouble, I'll be right by your side."

I made myself scarce and watched her approaching Magnus like she was stalking prey. For his part, Magnus pretended to be very interested in his martini.

"Mr Bane," she purred, extending a hand towards him. "I have heard so much about you."

Magnus flashed her a charming smile and kissed the proffered hand. "I don't believe I have had the pleasure of an introduction." 

Now that I was seeing her close up, I could see that her mouth was too wide, her eyes were too green, her makeup was too vivid, the thin arch of her eyebrows was almost fantastic in its curve and spread, and the mascara was so thick on her eyelashes that I was surprised she could see where she was going. 

"The name is Sarah Queen, but you can call me Sarah. What brings you to my neck of the woods?"  

"Curiosity," Magnus told her frankly.

"See anything you like?" she asked, her tongue playing roguishly along her lips. 

"I'll be sure to let you know when I do," he told her evenly.

"Word around town is that your lady love left for California some months ago."

I noticed Magnus stiffen imperceptibly. "I wasn't aware that my personal affairs were of such interest to the gossip mill."

She laughed and leaned against the bar. "When an eligible bachelor like yourself comes back on the market, everybody wants to know."

"You can't expect me to believe that a woman of your charms isn't already spoken for." 

"I am, but it doesn't mean I can't still have a little fun on the side."

"And if we get caught?"

"Isn't the risk part of the fun?" she asked him, batting her eyelashes at him. 

"I'd imagine your man would have some tough guys around to bounce me," Magnus said musingly. "Or you could do it yourself, if you wanted to."

"How are you going to make me want to?" Her eyes were inviting.

"With all these people around, how can I?" he answered with a raised eyebrow. 

"That's a thought," she said. She signalled the barman for a pen and a pad, and scribbled something down. "Don't keep me waiting."

"A gentleman never keeps a lady waiting," Magnus replied solemnly, and Sarah Queen sashayed off, satisfied in a job well done. I waited until she was safely backstage before approaching Magnus.  

"Luckily for me, I don't think she qualifies as a lady," Magnus said. "Shall we go?" 

I swirled his half-empty glass around idly. "You haven't finished your drink."

He eyed it wryly. "This place has left a rather unpleasant taste in my mouth. Besides, at my house there's steak and vodka - and you."

"You'll always have me," I told him with a smile, and went to get our hats and coats.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow are we going to need some serious help tiding ourselves over till APRIL. Geez. So here - have a chapter!
> 
> The song Sarah Queen sings is ["Bewitched" by Ella Fitzgerald](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1fzZ4l2H5-w).


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

It was a sunny afternoon, the last spurt of good weather before the winter cold. There was a drowsy smell of flowers and sun, a gentle swishing of lawn sprinklers, and the lazy buzzing of bees in the hedges.

I had traced the address Sarah Queen had given Magnus to a house belonging to a Mr Theo Monroe. 

It was a glaring white house that had the air of being brand new, sprawling across the neighbourhood like an indolent king. There was a high brick wall all around it, also painted white, and a bit of iron railing on top of the wall, painted black. The name "Monroe" was stencilled on the large white-coloured mailbox at the front.

I parked my rust heap under the shade of some trees and got out of the car. The stumble-stones turned easily under the soles of my shoes and threatened to trip me up. 

I took one look at the front door and followed my gut to go round the back to the service back door. A hard-eyed sour-faced old woman answered the door with her lips curled like I was something nasty the cat had dragged in, the door opened only wide enough to look out of, as if she was afraid I might try to push my way in. 

"What do you want?"

"I'm calling on Miss Queen," I said.

She sneered at me and shut the door. She took her time about it, or the house was bigger than I thought. After an age the front door opened again, this time all the way.

"Follow me."

The sour old lady led me along a brick path under a white metal frame twisted into a tunnel, supporting thorny plants that in summer might have had roses, to a garden area with showy annuals blooming even in late autumn. There was even a tennis court, and a small tiled pool glittering in the sun. A set of white garden furniture had been laid out under a white and green umbrella the size of a small tent.

Sarah Queen was on one of the recliners, with a tall misted glass of something undoubtedly alcoholic sitting at her elbow. The weather was good but too cold for a bathing suit - she wore white slacks and a white blouse that clung to her curves and was barely buttoned, and a necklace of green stones. She had on a pair of sunglasses with lenses the size of doughnuts. She looked over lazily, then sat up quite suddenly.

"Well, well. You aren't who I was expecting, but that don't mean you aren't a sight for sore eyes. What's your name, big boy?"

"Lightwood."

"I don't recall inviting you to my home, Mr Lightwood."

"I'm here to make a private enquiry about a confidential matter," I said, pointedly looking at the old lady who refused to leave.

"How did you know where to find me, Mr Lightwood?"

"I never reveal my sources of information, Miss Queen."

"Quite the man of mystery," she purred. "You're lucky you're a handsome devil. Leave us." She waved a hand at the old lady dismissively.

The old lady glared at me, but did as she was told. 

"Come sit beside me, then," Miss Queen said with a coy smile, and gestured to the chair next to her. I did, and her smile widened. "What did you want to ask me that isn't for other ears?"

"I'm a private detective. I'm here about the Herondales."

She coy smile turned into a derisive sneer. "Oh Lord. Don't tell me that loser Stephen Herondale hired you to find me just because I dumped him?" 

"I'm actually here on behalf of Mrs Herondale."

She arched a trimmed eyebrow at me. "That old woman hates me."

"She thinks you stole the Herondale family heirloom."

Miss Queen laughed, a cold, hard sound. "Does she, now?" 

I decided to be direct with her. "Miss Queen, if you did steal it, Mrs Herondale is willing to let the matter go as long as you return it. No cops involved."

"Just think," Sarah Queen drawled. "She's willing to let the matter go, no cops involved. As if that old coot wasn't terrified out of her mind of what skeletons the coppers might dig out of the family linen closet."

"So did you do it?" I asked her. 

"Sugar, if I really want something, do you think I need to lift a finger to get it?" she smirked.

That wasn't a 'yes', but it sure sounded more like a 'yes' than a 'no'. "Miss Queen, I'm not sure how long Mrs Herondale will be willing to hold off the cops. The heirloom is important to her."  

"But it's not more important to her than that fool she has for a son," Sarah Queen smirked.  

"I've been hired to be persistent on her behalf, and I can be very persistent."

"You say that like that's a bad thing," she purred. "I could get used to seeing your pretty face around."

"But I have a feeling Mr Monroe won't," I observed. 

She laughed. "I think you'll find that you'll be the one facing the heat, and Mr Monroe is not a man you cross on a whim."

"You say that, Miss Queen, but you must at least be in, what, your late twenties? How long does a woman of your profession stay in demand? Are you really willing to risk your comfortable position here just because you refused to give me a straight answer?"

She flushed and reared up like a cobra, hissing as she went. I knew I'd hit a nerve. "I don't think I like your manners very much, Mr Lightwood." 

I shrugged. "I'm not selling them." 

Her voice rose a couple of notches. "Well, I didn't take the damned necklace, so you can get the hell out of here right now."

"Maybe you didn't, but did you ask Stephen Herondale to steal it for you? Did you tell him that it'd win you back?" I pressed. 

She laughed harshly. "I wouldn't be surprised if he was the one who took it, but nothing he does will win me back. I made myself clear about that. Being irredeemably dull is one thing; being a cowardly creep hiding behind his mother's apron strings is another thing altogether."

Her gaze flickered behind me to the main house, and she flashed a wicked smile at me.  

"Oh, Taito and Russell, I'm so glad to see you!" she cried out, suddenly affecting a frightened expression. "This strange man barged into the house and has been bothering me."

I turned to see two big men the size of prized bulls marching up the garden path. One had dark hair, cropped close to the skull, and the other was bald. Both of them had necks as thick as tree trunks.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr Lightwood," she told me in an undertone. "Please send my regards to Mrs Herondale, and while you're at it, why don't you ask the old biddy exactly how her late husband died? Assuming you'll get the chance, of course."  

I had no opportunity to reply; one of the big men, the one with the cropped hair, grabbed me by the shoulder and squashed it into a pulp. 

"There's no need for that, I was leaving," I said, trying to keep the pain out of my voice.  

"Move it," the one who was wrecking my shoulder said in a hard tone, and dug his iron fingers into my flesh. "No one messes with Mr Monroe's girl."

He tried to pick me up by my shoulders - I tried to get in a little elbow room, but my coat was buttoned up, and it would take me a while to get at my revolver. Besides, it was two against one, and I wasn't about to start blasting people without a very good reason. I had no choice but to let them march me down the garden path. Sarah Queen wiggled her fingers at me in a little wave as she disappeared from sight. 

They dragged me out the back door. There was a small space between the house wall and the high wall that went round the house. The man who held me by the shoulder let go of me quite abruptly with a hard shove - I stumbled but didn't fall. The bone didn't feel broken or dislocated, but then again I could barely feel my shoulder any more, other than a dull ache. The two men came at me with their fists bunched up. I took a few steps back.

"What did you want with the missus?" the bald one demanded. Apparently he was the spokesman for the two of them.

"Just asking a few questions." 

"You with the cops?" he asked threateningly.

"No, private."

"Shamus don't got no business hanging around here, you hear me?" 

"Like I said, I was leaving," I replied. My body was taut with tension. I hadn't had to do much hand-to-hand since I'd left the police academy, but I knew I could hold my own. I unbuttoned my coat on the sly to give myself a better range of movement.

"Funny you should say that - we didn't say you get to leave," the bald man said nastily, baring his teeth in a parody of a smile.

I went on the offensive, keeping the element of surprise to my advantage. A swift kick to the gut took out Baldy for the time being. Cropped hair came at me with a crouched fighter's stance and threw a left hook at me - I blocked his punch with my right and jabbed him hard on the nose between the eyes, but it didn't faze him. He shook his head like a dog shaking water out of its ears and came at me again with his eyes a little unfocused, this time faking a left and catching me on the forearm with a right. I got him in the jaw with a right swing, and followed with an elbow to the side of the head, and he went down. Baldy came at me from behind and got me in a headlock. I elbowed him hard in the ribs, and he let go with a grunt. When I turned around, he caught me hard in the jaw, and I staggered back, seeing stars. I had the presence of mind enough to duck when he swung at me again, then I crouched and gave him a hard shoulder to the gut, slamming him into the wall behind. My shoulder was screaming in agony and my head was swimming, but I got out of there before either man could recover, stumbling on the gravel like a drunk until I got into my car. Perhaps it was foolhardy to drive in that state, but it seemed more foolhardy to hang around - I hit the pedal and got the hell out of there.

 

 

I had to get somewhere safe to rest, even if it was just a quiet spot to park my car. My head was still ringing from the punch Baldy had gotten in, undoubtedly a souvenir from my head injury a few weeks ago. Magnus' place was the closest, but I had little hope that he would be home in the middle of the day. I made my way there anyway.  

I was pleasantly surprised when Magnus answered the door. Magnus was less pleasantly surprised. 

"Alexander!" he cried out in alarm. "What happened to you?" 

"I'm fine," I replied automatically.  

Magnus pursed his lips. "Come in, I'll get you some ice for that."

He had me settled in an armchair in the living room. I was barely able to shrug off my jacket and my shirt - I took a look at my shoulder and saw that it was turning a mottled purple, with clear imprints of fingers in the flesh, but I'd had worse. 

When Magnus came back, he had regained enough of his sense of humour to wiggle an eyebrow at my state of undress. "Oh, you don't have to get dressed up for me," he protested when I flushed and pulled my shirt back on. 

"Magnus."

"Fine, but I liked what I saw," he pouted. He came closer, and gently applied a knotted towel filled with ice to my sore jaw. "I thought you were going to visit Sarah Queen today."

"I did."

"She had hired muscle?" he raised an eyebrow. 

"Not hers - she lives with a Mr Monroe," I said, and winced when Magnus pressed the towel a little harder than necessary. 

"Theo Monroe?" Magnus asked.

"Yes. Do you know him?" I frowned.

"I know of him," Magnus replied, and huffed in frustration. "Oh, Alexander. What have you gotten yourself into now?"

I wasn't surprised to hear that Mr Monroe wasn't exactly on the level, but I was certainly surprised by Magnus' reaction. "Who is he?"

"To put it indelicately, he's a mobster - head of one of the four crime families in New York City," Magnus said, putting the towel aside and walking over to the bar cart to mix himself a drink. 

"How do you know that?" This was information the police would kill for - assuming, of course, that he didn't already have the police in his pocket. 

"It's good business to keep an eye on these things, especially when you deal in valuable, rare objects like I do," he said. "I happened to know someone who knew someone - you know how these things go." 

"Well, I'll try to keep out of his way - it was a dead end with Sarah Queen anyway," I promised him, knowing how he worried about me getting into dangerous situations.

Magnus swirled his glass of brandy pensively and looked out of a window. "The question is, Alexander, whether he'll let you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Shamus" is slang for private investigator.


	5. Chapter 5

 

I went to the Hall of Justice early the next day to check up Marcus Herondale's records of death. Normally they didn't let just anybody into those records if you weren't next of kin, but I had a license and thought maybe I could owe Detective Luke Garroway another favour, since he was the one who had put me on the case in the first place. Captain Alaric Rodriguez was on duty today. He was a quiet sort, and kept to himself, but I got the feeling he didn't like me much.  

"Lightwood. How can I help you?" he greeted me. His voice was toneless, flat and uninterested. 

I showed him my license. "I'm working a case Detective Inspector Garroway recommended me for. I need to see the death record for Marcus Herondale."

"Garroway, huh?" He reached for the phone on his desk. "Get me Garroway at the D.A.'s office."

"Seriously, Rodriguez?" I asked, feeling the exasperation creeping into my voice. "We worked together for a year, why do you need a reference from Garroway?"

Rodriguez ignored me. "Garroway. Lightwood is here asking me for information about..." he frowned. "Okay." He dropped the phone and scowled.  

"Satisfied?"

"Wait here," he barked at me, and disappeared into a back room to find the file I had requested. When he returned with the folio, he threw it across the desk at me, and I barely prevented it from falling to the floor and scattering all its contents.  

I scanned the record quickly under Rodriguez's unfriendly gaze. The late Mr Herondale's death had been ruled as an unnatural death, but an accident. Apparently the old man had been startled by an inopportune clap of thunder while standing on the top of a flight of stairs - probably one of the sweeping staircases in the Herondale family home. If that didn't sound like a suspicious death, I'd eat my own hat.

"I'm done," I told Rodriguez, sliding the file back at him.

"Hey, hold up - Garroway is coming over. He wants to speak to you," Rodriguez said.  

I frowned. "He has my number." Rodriguez shrugged and went back to ignoring me. 

Sure enough, Garroway strolled into the room a few minutes later. 

"Lightwood," he greeted me, and eyed the bruises on my face. "Looks like you had a bit of trouble recently." 

I shrugged. "You wanted to see me?" 

"How's it going on the case for Mrs Herondale?" he asked. I didn't like his tone of voice - it was too casual, too cagey. It was the kind of voice cops used for interrogating, when it was their turn to play the good cop.

"Checking out a few leads," I replied. 

"Got something you might want to see. We'll take my car," he said.

 

 

I hadn't expected him to bring me to The Idris, and I hadn't expected it to look like that. The glass doors and glass cases had been smashed, the floor littered with powdered glass and - unexpectedly - what seemed like all the jewellery that had been in the cases. The whole place looked like it had been trashed for the sheer wanton glee of destruction, with tables smashed and drawers overturned, and the door to Victor Aldertree's personal office hanging on by a hinge. Even the mermaid fountain hadn't escaped unscathed, the little mermaid statue now a twisted mess on the floor.

I stepped gingerly over the debris, noting that although there hadn't been many pieces of jewellery in the cases, they had all been fairly intricate pieces, with large emeralds, sapphires, rubies and diamonds. Why would the person or people who had broken in not been interested in these pieces? Admittedly I did not have an eye for these things, and for all I knew these were all gold-plated copper and coloured glass.

Garroway nodded at the couple of uniforms standing around dusting for fingerprints and such, and led me straight to Aldertree's office. The office had also been ransacked - the safe behind the desk was hanging open with some papers, probably bank bonds, spilling haphazardly out from it, and the nine-hundred-dollar executive desk was a mess. The mahogany cigar case was lying on its side on the floor, splintered and disgorging tobacco on the carpet. Then I saw the expensive brown leather shoe sticking out from behind the desk, half dropping off a black-socked foot. 

Victor Aldertree was very, very dead. It was impossible not to be, not since he was missing most of his head and someone had emptied what looked like the rest of the rounds into his chest, so his crisp white shirt was now sodden and red. 

I looked at Garroway. He was observing me very carefully as he casually lit a cigarette. 

"Am I a suspect in this case, Detective?" I asked him bluntly.

He blew out a puff of smoke, angling it away from me. "Where were you this morning between 2 and 4 o'clock?"

"At home. My sister and brother can both vouch for me."

"In the middle of the night?"

"My brother is not well. He had a nightmare, then a panic attack. Those tend to wake the whole household," I said grimly.

Garroway nodded sympathetically. "I heard about your brother. These are just routine questions, Lightwood. It's good that you have a solid alibi. Anyway, I'd hardly expect you to mess this place up like that, it's not your style."

"What am I doing here, Detective?" I asked him shrewdly. 

"Secretary said you had an argument with Mr Aldertree here two days ago." 

"I would hardly call it an argument. I asked him a few questions. You may have noticed that that sometimes rubs people the wrong way."

"About the Herondale case?" he asked me, and I nodded. "Apparently Mr Aldertree flew into quite the temper after you'd left."

I shrugged. "All this destruction, and gunshots. Even if it was the middle of the night, this is New York. Was there nobody around who can provide a witness?" 

Garroway shook his head. "My men are still scouring the streets. I don't want to crowd you, Lightwood, but I was hoping you could give me some insight."

I took a closer look at office, and at the body. Other than the gunshot wounds, I noticed that all his pockets had been pulled out. They must have been looking for something, something small enough to fit in a pocket - the Morning Star? I had suspected Victor Aldertree of being the fence for the stolen heirloom, but I wondered how and why it had backfired on him. 

"Mrs Herondale wants to keep the police out," I told him.

"That was then. We've got a dead man on our hands now," Garroway said impatiently. 

"I'll make a trip to the Herondale home to ask her. That's the best I can promise you right now."

Garroway sighed. "Alright, I'll take it. You'll be going directly?" he asked, pinning me with a hard glare.

"Yes, Sir," I agreed. Mrs Herondale would be expecting to see some results for her money, anyway. 

Garroway drove me back downtown and dropped me off at the Hall of Justice so I could get back my car. I made my way to the Herondale's immediately, and got there in good time. But when I knocked on the Herondale's door, I wasn't expecting Miss Rollins to look so shocked to see me.

"I've been calling your office all morning, Mr Lightwood," she told me breathlessly. "Mrs Herondale is out of her mind with worry."

"What happened?" 

"It's Mr Stephen Herondale - he's gone."

 

 

That night while I was waiting for Magnus at the Black Cat, I had plenty to think over. Stephen Herondale had vanished in the middle of the night in his car and the clothes on his back, with no clue left to where he might be going. He had no friends, according to his mother - at least not the sort of friends that would take him in if he was in trouble. 

Stephen Herondale hadn't been the one to kill Aldertree, that much was clear - his kind was all bluster and no substance, and rarely had the stomach for this sort of thing. I doubted he even knew how to hold a gun steady. But there was a good chance whoever had given Aldertree a bad case of lead poisoning was also out for Herondale, and he'd gotten wind of it and done a runner.  

They were obviously in league with each other, even if Aldertree had held the upper hand. I figured Aldertree had called up Mrs Herondale, knowing that Stephen Herondale had stolen the heirloom, solely to put pressure on him to make him more eager to sell the jewel to Aldertree. I wondered if that meant more than one party was interested in the Morning Star, and Aldertree had won the bid for the Morning Star but lost his life in the exchange. 

Whatever it was, the key to this case obviously lay with Stephen Herondale - and not just about the missing heirloom, but also the mysterious death of the elder Mr Herondale, although I certainly had my suspicions. If I could find him, I was confident I had ways to make him talk. At the moment, my only lead to finding Stephen Herondale was his car - the silver convertible that I had seen in the garage on my first visit.

One of the wait staff whom I hadn't seen before tapped me on the shoulder. "There's a man outside asking for you, Mr Lightwood."

I frowned and followed him outside into the hotel lobby. I looked around and didn't see anybody, and was about to tell him so when I felt something sharp pierce my neck, and my world fell to darkness.

 

 

When I came to, I was sitting on a chair in a dark room. I was dizzy and nauseous, and my mouth felt as dry as a desert. I had obviously been shot full of something to keep me quiet and pliant. Even then, my hands were cuffed behind my back, and a rope ran from them to my ankles, and then round the chair I was sitting on. It was probably a blessing in disguise - I don't think I could have stopped myself from toppling off the chair and onto the floor if I hadn't been tied to it.

Some time went by - I wasn't sure how much because I was too busy concentrating on not being sick on myself. But a door opened, and three shadowy figures walked in. There was a click; then I was blinking in the glare of a single raw light bulb hanging from the ceiling. There wasn't much in the small room - couple of chairs, a table pushed to one wall. There were blinds on the windows. It was so nondescript, it could be any one of the hundreds of buildings in the city. I looked at my captors and found that I had already had the pleasure of meeting two of them.

"Not so tough now, eh?" Baldy sneered at me.

"You had to have someone dope me to the gills and tie me to a chair before you had the guts to face me again. So who's tough now?" I said, my voice barely more than a dry croak.

"Easy there," the third man said when the big man snarled and made a move towards me. He sounded amused, the way someone might sound if a small puppy had tried to growl.

He was tall and broad, as big as his hired muscle, but dressed in a well-cut slate grey suit. He had several thick gold rings on his fingers. The one with the cropped hair got a chair for him. I didn't need an introduction to know this must be Theo Monroe. He put a cigar from his suit pocket. One of his men gave him a light, and he sat there watching me for a bit while he smoked his cigar.

"I hear you've been snooping around making some enquiries about the Morning Star," Mr Monroe said. "The worthless scum who tried to sell me a fake said his mother hired you to get it back, then you turn up to pester my woman, and now my boys find your card in the desk of that arrogant shit."

"Like you said, I've been hired to find it. I'm just doing my job." 

"Don't try and be cute with me. Where's the real Morning Star?"

"I'd hardly still be working on the case if I'd found it, would I? I'd have given it back to Mrs Herondale and gotten paid."

"I think Mr Lightwood's throat sounds a bit hoarse. Get him a glass of water," Monroe said. 

Baldy went out of the room and came back with a full glass. I had the presence of mind to hold my breath before he threw the contents of the glass in my face. It certainly wasn't water. I did my best to ignore the way Baldy started playing meaningfully with his lighter.

Monroe puffed on his cigar. "I'm a busy man, and I don't have time for games. My Sarah said she wanted it, and what she wants I try to give her, because I'm a good family man, see? I always take care of my own. Well, the lousy sonofabitch who owned the jewellery shop happened to mention that you're pretty chummy with Magnus Bane, and I happen to know what Mr Bane makes his business in. Tell me the truth - is the Morning Star with Magnus Bane?" 

"This has nothing to do with him. Leave him out of it," I tried to put on a pokerface but couldn't quite keep the edge out of my voice. 

"I find that hard to believe. Sounds like he's got you well-trained to keep at his heel, sit down and roll over," Mr Monroe sneered. "I wonder if your loyalty to him is worth your while." 

I clenched my jaw and looked him dead in the eye. He got up from his chair. 

"Well, boys, he's all yours. You can have your fun with him as long as you don't kill him," he said with smirk, and left. 

Baldy grinned nastily at me and cracked his knuckles. But I wasn't paying attention to them. I could just about hear him talking to someone outside the door, and he said: "Tell Magnus Bane that if he wants his pet shamus back alive, he'd better give me the Morning Star."


	6. Chapter 6

 

I woke up to voices outside the room. The door banged open, and someone pulled a cloth bag over my head and cut through the ropes that bound me to the chair, then I was hauled to my feet by the collar of my coat. 

"Get moving," a gruff voice said, and I was shoved out of the room. 

Stumbling blindly, I was led through a long corridor to an elevator. My companion wasn't much of a talker, so I had no idea where I was going or why I was being moved. But with my hands still cuffed behind my back and my whole body bruised and sore from the beating I'd gotten, my options were limited. I decided to play along - unless they decided to put a gun to my head. 

When the elevator stopped and I was muscled out of it, I heard a sharp intake of breath and I was unceremoniously pushed into the arms of someone. The bag was ripped off my head, and I found myself staring bleary-eyed at Magnus. 

"He's hurt," Magnus addressed the man behind me, his voice harsher than I'd ever heard it. 

My taciturn escort surprised me by replying: "Should have seen the other guy," before shuffling back into the elevator. 

I would have smirked at the memory of the surprise on Baldy's face when I'd managed to get the jump on him even when I was trussed up like a turkey for the oven, but my lips were split and I couldn't feel my face anymore. It hadn't gone well for me after I'd taken Baldy down, but it was worth it. 

Someone had given him the key to the handcuffs. Magnus made short work of it. "My car is just outside," Magnus said. "Can you walk?" 

"Magnus, what did you do? Why is he letting us go?" I asked. I hadn't told Magnus anything about the case, but it would have been the greatest irony if Magnus had been the one in possession of the Morning Star all this while. 

"I wouldn't be half as successful a businessman as I was, if I couldn't negotiate with someone like Monroe," Magnus said. "He has agreed to give us two days to find the Morning Star. With my resources and your brains, I'm sure we'll manage."

"And if we can't find it after two days?"

Magnus shrugged. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." 

He wrapped me up in his arms, heedless of how badly I must have stunk, covered with blood, sweat and kerosene as I was, and I found myself collapsing gratefully into the certainty that he would be there to catch me. 

"Let's go home."

 

 

I was feeling more human after a long hot shower, bundled up in one of Magnus' silk dressing gowns and surrounded by the scent of his sandalwood soap. Magnus had laid out dinner for me, and had a first aid kit ready to tend to my injuries. He was quiet as he dabbed at my injuries with iodine. I knew that quiet - it usually meant he had something heavy weighing on his mind that he wasn't going to share until he was ready.

"Alexander. After all the things that have happened, I would understand if you decided that you didn't want to see me again," he said softly.

"This is hardly your fault. I expect a bit of trouble in my line of work," I assured him, but he just shook his head and gently placed a hand on my cheek.

"I put you in danger," Magnus whispered. "Because of who I am, and what I do."

I couldn't help but smile a little. He was making being a purveyor of fine art and rare objects sound like a criminal enterprise. "Magnus. There's no world in which anything you did would make me walk away from you."

Magnus smiled back at me, but there was something melancholy in it. "Do you remember, the night you came to me after you were released from the hospital, and I told you I didn't do well with losing the people I care about? I wanted to protect my heart, but it's too late for that now."

I watched him carefully, not daring to hope too much. 

"I think I love you, Alexander. And it scares me."

I moved close to him, until my whispering breath mingled with his. "You don't have to be scared," I told him. "Because I love you too." 

I leaned forward to kiss him, and after a moment's hesitation, he was pressing his lips into mine with equal enthusiasm. I couldn't help wincing - I had forgotten about my injuries.

He pulled back immediately, but his hand lingered on my arm, unwilling to let go entirely. "I'm hurting you." 

"You're not. I want this." I drew him into my arms, revelling in the warmth of his body against mine, and kissed him again.

I had never been upstairs, to the topmost floor, where his bedroom was. It smelled like Magnus did - tobacco and sandalwood, and that strange burnt sugar smell of his cologne. I brought his hands to my mouth and kissed each hand slowly, so that I could memorise the curve and shape of his fingers. We unwrapped each other carefully, and mapped out each other's bodies with hands and lips - the scars and smooth skin, the hard planes and secret places. He pushed me gently into the dark cocoon of his silk sheets and moved over me, smiling.  

"You're shivering," he told me.

"I hadn't noticed."

He pressed light kisses and murmurs of endearment into every inch of my skin, and then he moved lower still. My whole universe contracted down to him as I shuddered and gasped and cried out his name, again and again. When I finally came back to myself, it was my turn to roll him over, to watch him arch and writhe with pleasure under me. 

In the gentle lull of the peace that followed, I pulled him close to me, and we fell asleep with promises of love still on our tongues.

 

 

When I woke up the next morning, Magnus was still asleep. I ached all over, but not entirely in a bad way. I watched him sleep, cataloguing every eyelash and every line on his face. His eyes were moving slightly behind his eyelids - he was dreaming, far away in some place inside his head that I would never be able to follow. And as I watched him, I felt the growing certainty that some part of him would always be unknowable, unreachable, never mine; but also the certainty that it didn't matter, not to me.

Unfortunately, our quiet morning was short-lived. The shrill scream of the telephone went off downstairs, and Magnus stirred.  

"Sorry, darling. I'd best go get that," Magnus said, kissing me sweetly and pulling on a dressing gown.  

I joined him in the study shortly, just in time to see him putting down the phone.  

"That was your lovely sister Isabelle," Magnus told me. "Apparently your friend in the D.A.'s office has been trying to get hold of you."

"Detective Garroway?" 

He nodded. "Perhaps we could split up to follow up on our own leads today. I'll ask around to see if anybody has heard anything about the Morning Star, and you can see what Detective Garroway wants with you."

I stopped by my apartment for a proper change of clothes since mine were all ruined and Magnus' things didn't fit me well enough for official business, and promised Izzy to explain everything to her later to calm her fussing. I was a little later than I liked when I reached the pier where I had arranged to meet Garroway. 

The wind that blew off the river was cold. I pulled my coat closer around myself. From where I was, I could see a low black barge crouched against the pilings at the end of the pier, something silvery and shiny sitting on its deck. I had seen that car sitting outside the Herondales' house not a few days before - it was Stephen Herondale's silver convertible. 

There was a small crowd gathered around the car, which had obviously just been pulled out of the East River. The usual suspects - police, and the usual morbid passersbys. Garroway was smoking a cigarette and looking over the car while talking to a woman I recognised as Lydia Branwell, the NYPD's resident pathologist. I had liked working with her - she was efficient, fair, and didn't beat about the bush.

"Lightwood," Garroway frowned at my appearance, but didn't comment. He indicated that I was free to examine the car while Branwell worked. I took a quick once over, noting that the front bumper was bent from where it had broken clean through the railing on the pier, and the car was pretty scratched up, but the tires were still intact. There was a corpse draped over the steering wheel, blond and wearing a good suit. I didn't need them to flip him over to know that I wasn't going to be getting Stephen Herondale to talk after all.

When they did push him back into the seat, any man on the street could have told you the cause of death - his front was riddled with bullet holes. Five shots. All over the place too, like they had just let the gun rip, and no bullet in the head for this one, unlike Aldertree. Maybe they hadn't wanted to let him die quickly and cleanly. 

Garroway and I watched while Branwell prodded and shifted the corpse. "How long dead, Doc?"

"I wouldn't know."

Garroway looked at her sharply, but she met his gaze calmly. "He was dead before he went in the water, and rigor mortis hadn't set in when whoever it was shoved him in the car - good luck getting him out now, by the way. The water's messed the evidence up. But judging from the lack of bloating and state of his skin, I'd say he's only been in the water for less than twelve hours," Branwell said.

"His family reported him missing yesterday morning," I supplied. 

"And you didn't think to tell me that yesterday, Lightwood?" Garroway barked. I knew he was thinking about the incident with Raphael and Magnus a few months back.

I shrugged. "They thought he'd run off. I was supposed to get him back quietly."

Garroway narrowed his eyes at me and indicated that I should follow him. He nodded at Branwell. "Thanks, Doc. I'll be expecting the report on my desk today." 

He brought me to his car and ditched his cigarette while I slid into the shotgun seat, but he didn't drive off. Where he had parked, we had a modicum of privacy.  

"Yesterday you had a shiner, and today you look like you lost a fight with a truck. What the hell is going on here, Lightwood? Spill," he ordered. 

"I'm have a client to protect. Mrs Herondale-"

"Yes, doesn't want the police involved, you said. But she's going to change her tune now that her boy is dead," he said gruffly. 

I shrugged. "Maybe. But for now, my instructions are still the same."

"Alright, damn you, Lightwood. Off the record," he offered grudgingly. 

"I've got a pretty good idea who killed Stephen Herondale and Victor Aldertree - or at least gave the orders to have them killed. Ever heard of the name Theo Monroe?"

He had a pokerface to rival the best of them, but I saw Garroway's fingers twitch like he was longing for another cigarette. "Remember when I told you about not being too smart? You obviously haven't been listening to me." 

"You know who he is, _what_ he is."

"'Course I do," he sighed. "But knowing and proving it is another matter. I am a cop. I want the law to win. I want people like him to be working the quarries in Folsom alongside the kids from the slums who got busted on their first caper and haven't caught a break since. But you and I both know that's not how it works." 

I didn't say anything. I got out of the car. "You'll let me know about Branwell's report?" I asked him.

He nodded, and started the engine. "Good luck, Lightwood."

I walked back to where I had parked my own car. All my leads were dead - except Monroe himself, and I wasn't fool enough to go back there just yet. I guess it was time to talk to Mrs Herondale.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mentions of past sexual abuse.

 

It was just after noon when I reached the Herondale home. I tapped on the door with the knocker, and as usual Miss Rollins answered the door.

Miss Rollins looked flustered. "Mr Lightwood! Is there any news on Mr Herondale?"

"Yes, but it's not good news, I'm afraid. Could I talk to Mrs Herondale, please?"

"She's having a lie down," Miss Rollins told me apologetically. "All this business with Mr Herondale going missing has worn her out, and she is getting on in years, you know..." 

"I can wait."

"Oh, but we couldn't possibly! You must be a busy man."

"It's no bother, Miss Rollins. Mrs Herondale is paying me for my time, after all."

She led me to the sitting area, apologising profusely along the way, and left me to amuse myself while she checked on Mrs Herondale. While she was gone, I took the opportunity to backtrack and examine the staircases in the main hall. Now that I knew the story of Marcus Herondale's untimely end, it was easy enough to spot the signs - a dark stain in the parquetry that would never really go away, several dents in the railing all along the left stairway where perhaps the late Mr Herondale had swung his walking stick during the course of his fall.

"Mr Lightwood?" I heard Miss Rollins call from the sitting area.

"Over here. I'm sorry if I was out of line - just taking a look around."

"Not at all," she said, her eyes darting to the staircase and back to me. "A cup of tea for you, Mr Lightwood, while you wait. Or would you prefer something stronger?" she asked me with a nervous smile. 

"Tea is fine," I assured her, following her back to sitting area and trying to make myself look comfortable while she placed the cup in front of me. I didn't really want the tea either, but she looked so upset about having to make me wait that I drank it to be polite. 

"Mrs Herondale should be down soon for her lunch. Should I ask the cook to set another place for you?"

I shook my head, and frowned. I was starting to feel a little dizzy.

"Mr Lightwood? Are you alright?" Miss Rollins asked, but I couldn't answer. A pool of darkness opened in my head, and I fell right down into it.

 

 

Waking up to find myself tied up was turning out to be a bad habit of mine. Letting my guard down around harmless-looking folks was going to be a far more dangerous habit.

I was no longer in the main house. From the sponges, cleaning cloths and the strong smell of leather polish, I figured out that I was in the garage. Whatever had been in the tea was weak enough that it was already wearing off. I was tied to a chair, but the ropes were too loose and the knots too simple - getting myself out of my bindings took a handful of minutes, but I opted to keep them around me and hide the fact that I had managed to free myself. Considering Rollins barely reached my shoulders, unless she was a lot stronger than she looked, she definitely had an accomplice.

There were footsteps, someone in heels, and Rollins came into the room. I pretended to be still unconscious. She started pacing around the room, always keeping a safe distance from me, and mumbling to herself. It seemed like she was trying to come to some sort of decision, and I immediately knew what she had decided when I heard the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked. 

"Miss Rollins," I said, and she jumped so hard she nearly dropped the gun in her hand. 

She seemed unnerved to see that I was awake. Her hands were shaking, but the gun was still pointed at me. It was a small revolver. I recognised it as a Colt Banker's Special, .22 calibre, hollow point cartridges. When fully loaded, it could take a total of five slugs. I had the sudden feeling that the bullets from Stephen Herondale's postmortem weren't going to match up to the bullets they'd found in Victor Aldertree.

"Please put the gun down."

"I didn't want to have to shoot you, Mr Lightwood," she told me, her voice trembling. "You seem like a good man. But I have no choice."

"There's always a choice. Let me help you, please."

"You already know too much."

"On the contrary, I'm feeling mighty stupid right now. Maybe you can help me understand."

"That’s a trick," she whispered. "You just want me to confess, so you can put me in jail. I'm not going to let you have a chance to do that." She gripped the gun a little more firmly. 

"That’s not the way to win, Miss Rollins."

"There's no way for me to win. Every way I choose, I'm going to lose," she said, and aimed the gun more steadily at me.  

Fortunately, I'd seen what was coming next. I was out of the chair and wrestling the gun out of her hand before she could pull the trigger. She sobbed and tried to scratch at me, but I kept the gun out of her reach easily, pinning her to the wall with a hand over her mouth in case she yelled and brought her accomplice running over. If possible, that seemed to drive her into a greater panic, her eyes so wide they were threatening to bulge out of her skull.

Sensing something was very wrong, I let go of her immediately and kept my distance from her. She didn't scream - she was hyperventilating too hard. I recognised the signs of a panic attack. I was very well-versed with dealing with them now because of Jace.  

"Deep breaths, Miss Rollins, I swear I'm not going to hurt you. Just count your breaths. I do this with my brother all the time. Easy now..."

I quickly emptied the chambers of her gun surreptitiously and slid it back to her. She stared at me in confusion and disbelief, then quickly grabbed the gun and held it out in front of her like a talisman. 

"Do you believe me now? I want to help you. I've seen the way Imogen Herondale and Stephen Herondale treated you, and I don't believe you're the sort who would steal the Morning Star for personal greed. You must have had your reasons, and I want to understand."

She remained silent. 

"Alright, let me go first. I'll tell you what I know, and maybe you can help me fill in the blanks," I suggested. She didn't acknowledge my request, but I went on. "It started with the late Marcus Herondale's death. His dying made your being here unbearable, and you needed a ticket out. You stole the Morning Star and put a fake in its place, then you encouraged Stephen to steal the fake. He was supposed to be your fall guy."

She stared at me some more, then gave a hesitant nod. 

"You were the one who killed Stephen Herondale."

"He deserved it," she replied with surprising venom. 

I thought about the way Stephen Herondale had been shot: five slugs right to his face. Judging from the way she had reacted when she realised I was awake when she wanted to shoot me, she had drugged him too before shooting him. She hadn't fired the entire clip into him out of self-defence because he was coming at her - this was an act of pure vengeance. 

"He hurt you," I realised. And worse, from the way she had reacted when I had touched her shoulder the first time we met, and her panic attack when I had held her down just now. I knew then that he had violated her. 

Rollins didn't respond at first, hugging herself and staring into space, gun forgotten. 

"I wasn't the first. Mr Marcus Herondale was a good man. He thought his son was a womaniser, but when he found out exactly what sort of scum he was, he told him he was disowning him. That's when Stephen Herondale pushed him down the stairs," she said. 

"I'm guessing Mrs Herondale hushed it up for her son, but Sarah Queen found out somehow."

"She knew. Sarah knew exactly what he'd done to his father and to me, and that's why she left him. But she didn't care enough to stay and help me."

"How did Victor Aldertree get mixed up in this business?"

"I knew that Mr Aldertree had once called on the late Mr Herondale, expressing an interest to buy the heirloom. So I pretended that he'd called again, planting the idea of stealing it in Stephen's head. After he stole the fake, I was supposed to wait until the cops were on his tail, then shoot him and make it look like he'd committed suicide. I didn't expect to get Mr Aldertree killed, I hadn't meant for it to all get so out of hand."

"You've been planning this long, then?"

She was quiet for a while. "I'm not the one who came up with the plan. I paid someone."

"Paid someone? What, like a consultant? A criminal consultant?" I asked, sure that she was half out of her mind.

"Yes, you could say that," she replied. "Elliott - that's the gardener - he's the one who'd heard of him. They call him the Princeling of Hell."

I must have startled visibly, I couldn't help myself - it was like someone telling you the boogeyman was real.

"You've heard of him?" she asked me.

"You can say that. And this guy, you tell him what you need done, and I don't suppose he gives you these plans for free?"

"No, of course not."

"And what did he want in return?"

"Money. More money than I could possibly come up with. But he put me in touch with someone who would buy the Morning Star for a lot of money, more than the price he'd asked for his services, and made a cheap fake for me besides - a man named Barnabas Hale."

I filed that name away for later. "You were planning to run off, weren't you? I came in at the wrong time. I assume you've drugged Mrs Herondale too?" 

She looked away. "Elliott is going to help me. He... he says he loves me."

"Alright," I told her, and I couldn't quite explain why I did what I did. "Then go. I never saw you." 

She stared at me in shock. "You're going to let me go? Why?" 

I shrugged. "I won't say Stephen Herondale got what he deserved, because death is too easy an end for scum like him. And it's your word against Mrs Herondale's, and she would never let justice be served. They've ruined your life enough."

She got up mutely and backed away slowly, as if she still couldn't believe her luck. 

"Hang on - give me that gun. The cops are going to be able to trace those bullets."

She practically threw the gun on the floor and fled. I picked it up with a rag and wiped it thoroughly to get rid of the fingerprints. Outside, I heard the engine of a car revving up and speeding away. I didn't look outside. 


	8. Chapter 8

 

When I got back to Magnus' house, it was already evening. I had spent a bit of time erasing the evidence of my presence at the Herondale house, but hadn't done more than that, not even to check if Mrs Herondale was okay. Dorothea Rollin's gun sat heavy in my pocket.

"Alexander. Is everything ok?" Magnus asked when he opened the door for me.

I shook my head, hanging up my coat and hat and following him up to the study. "It's a long story."

"We have the time."

"No, we really don't - we have a priceless heirloom to find and deliver to a crime lord so he doesn't get his men to come at us both so hard we'll be picking iron out of our livers," I sighed. "I've got a name though."

"Barnabas Hale?" Magnus asked with a smile. "I already know."

"How?" I asked in bewilderment.

"Lucky break," he told me. "I know the kind of business Hale runs, and not half of it is shady."

"You bought it back from him?"

"I did."

"Alright, then let's get it to Monroe tonight," I suggested.

Magnus looked at me quizzically. "Didn't you hear the news?"

"No, I was a bit... preoccupied today. What happened?"

"There was a shoot-out in downtown Manhattan today. Monroe is dead." 

Dead. I wasn't a big believer in luck, but maybe Magnus was my lucky charm. "Who did it?" 

"I don't think they've caught them yet. A man like him must have made a lot of enemies," Magnus shrugged, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. "Monroe was a powerful man, but perhaps he angered someone even he couldn't handle. The building he was holding you in was razed too. I doubt any of his men will be coming after us soon for this jewel. Do you want to see it?"

I nodded silently, and Magnus set his glass down to retrieve the Morning Star from his safe. He had it wrapped in a soft velvet cloth, and laid it in my palm for my inspection. It was a pretty thing, to be sure, and barely fit in my palm. The flawless gem was set in an intricate gold filigree net studded with tiny sapphires. Still, it was a cursed thing now, its legacy forever intertwined with murder and bloodshed. 

"All this trouble, for such a little thing," I observed.

"Wars have been fought for less," Magnus replied. "You seem troubled. What happened after you went to meet Detective Garroway?" 

I shouldn't have told him anything, it wasn't my business to tell. But if I couldn't trust Magnus, who could I trust? It wasn't a pretty story, filled as it was with murder and rape and greed. The worse part was the callousness they had all shown to poor Dorothea Rollins' misery. That there had been people in the story, like Sarah Queen and Mrs Herondale, who had known of her suffering but had chosen not to help her seek justice. It wasn't a pretty story, and I hated bringing Magnus into contact with the ugly underbelly of New York that I had to deal with because of my job, but it was a story I had to tell someone. 

"Do you regret it? Not turning Dorothea Rollins in?" Magnus asked me gently. 

"No, I don't. I guess I was thinking that the Herondales had done her a great wrong that couldn't be undone," I said.

"Whatever you did, and however you feel about it, you were doing what you felt you had to do, and you were doing it because you thought it was right,” he reminded me. 

"Garroway reminded me not long ago that it's not my job to play judge, jury, and executioner. I'm no longer a cop, but the same rules apply." 

"That may be true, but what you did you also did out of compassion, and human decency, concepts which the law does not seem to understand. It might not make a difference to others, why you did it - but it makes a difference to you, and to me."

"Do you really think so?"

Magnus smiled. "You are a good man, Alexander. That's what attracted me to you."

"And here I was, thinking it was my face and the way I filled out a suit."

Magnus laughed and kissed me. "Well, there's that too, but you also look very lovely without the suit," he said teasingly. "Come, Alexander. Let's leave tomorrow's worries for tomorrow, and let me take you to bed."

Who was I to argue with that logic? I let him take my hand and lead me upstairs. 

 

  

When I called on Mrs Herondale the next morning, I was let in by an elderly lady who might have been the cook. She led me to the sun porch where I had last met Imogen Herondale, but a great change had been wrought in the grand matriarch of the Herondale family. She was sitting in the same fancy overstuffed armchair, impeccably dressed and drinking like a fish, but the loss of her son had taken the steel out of her spine.

She glared stonily at me when I sat down. I took the Morning Star, still wrapped in the velvet cloth, out of my coat pocket and placed it on the table. She stared at it, but did not move to take it or unwrap it.

"All right," she said wearily. "Get on with it. I have a feeling you are going to be very brilliant. Remorseless flow of logic and intuition and all that rot."

"Sure. Taking all the evidence and putting it all together in a neat pattern, sneaking in the odd observation about the shade of someone's coat that only I noticed but turned out to be the key to solving the whole case. Then coming to a solution quite different from what anybody - myself included - could have expected, before this golden moment of clarity."

"I don't like your attitude." 

"I've had complaints about it, but it keeps getting worse," I said. "At any rate, I've done what you asked me to do - I got your heirloom back."

She lost the grip she had been holding on her anger then. "I made a mistake calling you in the first place. That was my dislike of being played for a sucker, as you would say, by a little bitch like Sarah Queen. But the loss of the heirloom would have been easier to bear than the loss of my son. This is your fault - you and your damned snooping!"

"I think, Mrs Herondale, you'll find that I'm hardly to blame for your son's death. No, you are the one who made him the man he turned out to be, and that's what got him killed," I replied coldly.

"If you're here to be insolent, you can get out of my house!"

I shook my head. "Not insolent, just frank. I've been told it's my weakness. You spoiled your son - you taught him it was his right to have whatever he wanted. You coddled him from the consequences of his own actions. You nurtured him into a greedy, arrogant bastard who thought he could get away with all sorts of vile deeds."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," she said stiffly.

"You're a smart woman, Mrs Herondale. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Marcus's death was an accident," she insisted. 

"And what he did to Miss Rollins?" I pressed.

"Oh, is that why that silly girl ran away? I don't think he really hurt her, just scared her out of her wits," Mrs Herondale said dismissively. "You know how it is with these girls, blowing things out of proportion and being overdramatic. And she wouldn't be the first, too - there was even one, a Céline Montclaire, who claimed that my Stephen got her pregnant..." 

I froze. We didn't know much about Jace's parentage, since his birth mother had died of childbirth alone in a hospital, leaving him to the tender mercies of an orphanage. But we did know her name at least. Coupled with Jace's resemblance to Stephen Herondale, there was no doubt that I had stumbled upon Jace's true heritage. 

Mrs Herondale continued talking, oblivious to my horror: "My point is, my Stephen was rich and good-looking. There are plenty of girls who think they can get their hooks in by telling stories." 

I had to hand it to her. I wanted to hand it to her with a fist and a broken nose, but I had been brought up with better manners. 

"Well, Mrs Herondale. You have your heirloom back, like you wanted. I hope that helps you sleep easy, even knowing that you're all alone in the world now," I bit out, and got up.

Our eyes locked hard and held locked for a long moment. The corner of her mouth twitched, and for a brief moment I thought I saw a sort of panic in the depths of her eyes, but very far back, very dim.

I went across the room and out, closed the door, and went past the cheerless stuffy living room that made me feel like I'd been buried alive, and then out into the clean fresh air of the morning. There was a quiet, firm click of the lock of the front door. I had never felt happier to be done with a client, and right there on the Herondale's front porch, I promised myself that Jace would never find out about the monsters that had brought his poor mother such misery. I went down the steps of the porch for the last time, and crossed the street to my car.

 

 

My last order of business that day was to call on Detective Garroway at his office, but he was waiting for me at the entrance to the Hall of Justice. The moment he saw my car, he indicated that I should wait, and he came out and got in my car.

"Let's take a walk, Lightwood. Too many curious ears," he said gruffly.

We ended up in Central Park, sitting on a bench in front of Turtle Pond watching the ducks. Garroway lit a cigarette carefully, turning it around in the flame, and holding the burning match away from it while he stared thoughtfully at nothing and drew on his cigarette.

"You heard about Monroe," I guessed. 

Garroway nodded, frowning. "Hell of a coincidence, don't you think, Lightwood? You snitch on him to me, and the next day he's a stiff cooling in the morgue."

"I didn't have anything to do with that. You can't possibly think that I did."

"And what about Stephen Herondale? Ballistics report came back this morning - I can't imagine Monroe's men bothering with a cute little .22, and I have a bad feeling in my gut that you know exactly who did that. Probably have the gun in your pocket."

I didn't answer him.   

"Don't tell me - it's about a good man who made some bad decisions - again," he bit out.

"Something like that."

"Lightwood, you're getting mixed up in some damned shady business," he growled. "And I can't help you if you insist on playing all your cards close to your chest."

"You ever heard of someone who calls himself the Princeling of Hell?" I asked Garroway.

"No. What is he, some kind of masked vigilante?"

"I don't know. But this is the second time I've heard his name in relation to a case. They went to him, and he told them how to do what they needed to do."

"A criminal mastermind?" Garroway asked skeptically. 

"I don't know. I don't know what to think." 

"Alright. I'll keep an eye out on my side," Garroway said thoughtfully, and got up. "You know, Lightwood, there was a time when I would have said that you weren't the kind of guy who would deliberately cover up on any murder."

"People change."

"That they do," he agreed heavily. "You take care out there."

"You too, Sir."

I watched him walk to the edge of the park and out of sight, and I hoped I hadn't just signed his death warrant.


	9. Epilogue

 

It was raining the next morning when I went to my office, big fat drops of cold rain that dripped down the brim of my hat and into my collar. That was it - the last of the good weather had gone. I knew from here out it was all going to be rain, then snow. 

I was extra careful going in to my reception room - even though Monroe was dead, I wasn't going to let my guard down. It was easier to assume that one of his men might always be waiting round the corner for me. Besides, nobody knew who had been the one to call the hit on Monroe. For all I knew, Sarah Queen had got herself a new sucker to pander to her whims, and there might still be someone out there who wanted the Morning Star. 

When I was sure the reception room was clear, I unlocked the door to my office carefully. There wasn't anybody lying in wait to ambush me in my office, nor was the door bobby-trapped, but there was an envelope in my mail tray, same as the last time: heavy paper, no post mark, and no address. I took out a handkerchief to pick up the envelope and sliced it open, and sure enough, there was another one of those cat-eyed stones inside.

The first stone I'd assumed was mistakenly delivered to me; the arrival of this second stone suggested purpose. I took the first stone, still in its original envelope, out of my desk drawer. The envelopes were exactly identical - perfectly blank, not even a stain or spot of dirt on them. I hadn't paid much attention to the envelope the first time, other than to look for an address or addressee, but now I examined it more closely. Fingerprinting would be no use to me for the first envelope - I had handled that too carelessly and my own prints would have obscured anything useful. Taking out some dusting powder, I tried my luck with the second envelope, but nothing useful turned up. I dug out a lighter and ran the envelope over the flame to test for invisible ink, but it also yielded no answers as to the identity or intentions of its mysterious sender.

Since the envelope was a dud, I could only assume the cat-eyed stone itself was the message. Could it be a warning, from the Princeling of Hell? After all, I had just cracked two of his cases and foiled his clients' plans. Perhaps it was as simple as him saying "I see you, and I know who you are". Well, if he thought that was going to scare me away, he certainly didn't know anything about me. And if he even dared to threaten Magnus, Izzy or Jace, I was going to hunt him down to the ends of the earth.

The sound of the buzzer broke through my thoughts. There was a knock on the connecting door, and a voice I was very familiar with called out: "Alexander?"

"Magnus," I greeted him with a smile, opening the door for him. 

He strolled into my private office and locked the door behind him. I was surprised to notice that he seemed a little nervous - I had never seen Magnus look nervous.  

"Oh, did you receive another one of those cat-eyed stones?" Magnus asked, noticing the envelopes on my desk.

"Yes," then I was struck by a sudden brainwave. "Magnus, do different gemstones have different meanings?"

"Diamonds are a girl's best friend?" Magnus offered mischievously.

"Other than that," I said wryly.

"If you are the superstitious sort, yes," Magnus answered. 

"What do these mean?" I asked, indicating the cat-eyed gemstones on my desk.

"They're supposed to bring you luck and protection," Magnus said. 

I frowned. Luck and protection? That didn't sound at all like something the Princeling of Hell would wish on me. Unless, of course, there was a _third_ player in this game of cat-and-mouse. My gaze jumped to Magnus, who seemed rather preoccupied today and didn't notice. Magnus was in the business of buying and selling gemstones. He knew what they meant, and he had connections in the city - sources of information that I wasn't privy to. But if he knew who the Princeling of Hell was, why would he go to all this trouble of sending me anonymous gifts of gemstones? It didn't make any sense. 

"Are you alright?" I asked Magnus.

"I have something for you," Magnus said, and took something small and silver out of his coat pocket. He set it down on the desk, fixing his eyes on it rather than looking at me. It was a key - ordinary enough, simple, and newly made, judging from the shine and lingering metal dust.

"What's this for?"

"It's the key to my house," Magnus explained, still not meeting my eyes.

I stared at him in stunned silence, my mind whiting out. The key to his home - just like that. I could go in at any time and make myself at home. Or was he offering even more than that? "Are you sure? What if I went in when you weren't there and drank all your liquor and wore your best dressing gown?" 

Magnus looked up at me then, his eyes dancing with a mixture of mirth and fondness. He shrugged. "Trust makes you do strange things." 

My heart skipped a beat in my chest, and I pocketed the key carefully, certain that my feelings for him had to be written all over my face.

"Are you hungry?" he asked me.

"Starving." 

We walked out in the thunderstorm together, huddled under Magnus' umbrella, since I had none of my own. 

"So where are we going?"

"Veselka. It's an Ukrainian restaurant. It makes the most delectable pierogi, according to Catarina." 

"Magnus, that's across Brooklyn Bridge. You want to walk a mile in the rain just for dumplings?" I frowned.

Magnus laughed softly and shook his head. “To be with you, Alexander.”  

And I turned under the umbrella and held him hard against me with my free arm and wished I could kiss him right there, in the rain.

"Forget about the damned dumplings," I told him. "Let's just go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, dear readers, for sticking with me for another installment in this series. I think I have one last one for y'all, or possibly two more. I'm not sure yet. But as usual I shall be taking another plotting/planning break, and I'll be back with the next one in a week or so!
> 
> Until then, come say hello on tumblr @la-muerta if you want! XOXO


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